


Scandal

by thebookhunter



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: But consensual, Estranged Brothers, Evil Schemes, It's just a bit of fun, M/M, and just plain violence, and nobody can stop me, asshole!Thor, bit of baaaad BDSM practices, both unredeemed, brutal sex, except by their mutual fucked up love, it's a one-shot! it's a one-shot!, they're both evil assholes, they're just fucked up what can i say, this is fucked up, well-deserved revenge, will swap povs in the middle of it because i feel like it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:47:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28337928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebookhunter/pseuds/thebookhunter
Summary: Things are going all too well for Thor. His ever rising hockey career took him far away from Loki a long time ago. Loki took himself down the wrong path and got himself in trouble.But they were once very very close. Too close, even. Out of the blue, video proof emerges of that closeness, threatening to destroy everything Thor has worked for.He thinks it's simple revenge, and it is, but with Loki, things are never that simple, are they?
Relationships: Loki/Thor (Marvel)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 96





	Scandal

**Author's Note:**

> This has been in my drawer for ages. No, I mean, for years. I took the dust off and tried to pull it into shape a bit and then forgot again about it.
> 
> It could do with some more work, but you know what? Fuck it. It's just a little fun, after all. Just a little bit of Fucked Up Thorki fun.

Thor is on the TV. Thor Odinson, ice hockey star of the New York Avengers, on the couch of Marjorie Kellerman, famous talk-show presenter catering to ladies of taste of a certain age with not much to do in the afternoons. The set and the presenter are all one with their frills and their pastels.

Pastel looks good on Thor. Makes his young, perfect face hazy around the edges, as if he was the angelic, up-and-coming new hot stud in one of those soaps that’s been running for twenty-five years. Just like that, he could grow a mustache and start dropping his clothes and fit right in in a 1970s porno. It’s that haircut, the pale suit, and of course the outrageous sexual charisma he cannot help but broadcast everywhere he goes. Dear old Marjorie, for all her composure, no matter how thick the makeup caking her face and the flattering lighting of her set, can’t hide the fluster. Is your chair on fire, Marge?

Her schoolmistress tone, however, stays true, seasoned professional that she is, and her demeanor is grave and self-possessed when they get over and done with the niceties and into the meat of it, so to speak, the reason that’s bringing the golden stud to her studio on this fine April afternoon.

“Thank you for agreeing to talk to us today,” Marjorie says.

“I believe I have to face the facts, and deal honestly with the public. I realize there are many questions, and I wish to show that I have nothing to hide.” Mr. Odinson smiles, and causes a ripple of frisson among the mostly female sitting audience. (Apparently this gig was the hottest ticket in town today.)

“Regarding the images themselves,” says Marjorie, without further ado. Everybody here (and pretty much all over the fucking country) knows what this is about. “We will not be broadcasting them, of course, but there’s been so many questions. What can you tell us about what they show.”

Thor adopts himself a grave look, his noble brow pinching. He conjoins his hands as if he needs to keep them from shaking (What a thorough performance, such an eye for detail; his pulse hasn’t fucking shaken one goddamn day in his life.)

“It shows a very young boy with very poor judgement, Marjorie,” he says, lowering his gaze for a moment, humble in the face of decency, against which he has trespassed. “As it’s clear in the video, I was very heavily intoxicated.” (It’s really not.) “Otherwise I would never have agreed to… to any of it.” He seems distraught, perturbed, deeply uncomfortable, but not too much. He won’t drag at their feet, because he is a changed man today, isn’t he? That’s the shtick. The man facing the crowd today is not that boy, but he’s willing to meet the firing squad with a bare chest and refusing the blindfold. Who will cast the first stone, is what he’s getting at. He’s a fucking genius, is what he is.

Marjorie gives him a moment, and her tone becomes delicate, gentle, almost motherly.

“Would you say that you… were taken advantage of?”

Thor tightens his mouth and his frown becomes deeper. Oh, this is so difficult, so embarrassing, such a terrible ordeal. Waves of compassion from the audience.

“Yes,” he says, in a husky whisper. “I feel… violated. I was in no condition to consent to… And I certainly would never have consented to having those images taken.”

Marjorie nods in sympathy. Look at her, bracing herself. It’s ever so difficult to carry on this interrogation, almost cruel, but the people simply must know. Only truth and contrition will appease the public outrage, and Marjorie Kellerman, uncrowned queen of the republic of Afternoon Television, is there to help Thor Odinson clean up his name and leave this behind, tough as it must be for the poor darling boy.

“What about what actually transpires in the video,” she asks, soft, full of tact. Oh, to have to put such a question to his much harassed guest. “Are you, or have you ever been, a homosexual?” The word rolls uneasily on her tongue.

Thor squares his jaw, and meets her eyes. Not confrontationally, just… honest.

“I was young, Marjorie,” he owns. Again, no defiance there. (No denial either.) A decent man who opens his heart and has the courage to look into it with a clear sight and a pure heart. “I was young and eager to… experiment.” His eyes are lowered for that last word. “We all do stupid things in our youth, especially when under the influence. And it might sound crazy, Marjorie, but I’m almost happy that this has come out. My shame might serve as an example to other young kids out there.” He looks into the camera, his tone now a little lighter. “Don’t do drugs, kids.” (He’s just taking the piss now.)

Marjorie smiles tepidly at the bland message, then dives right into it again.

“How have you dealt with the incredible pressures and judgement of the public?”

“Well I’ve prayed, Margaret. I’ve turned my eyes to God, and begged for guidance. I have become more in touch with my faith.” (Oh god, this is getting embarrassing now.) “And I believe he has heard me. He has given me courage and serenity, and strength to face these dark times.”

(And it’s surely got to be the ultimate proof that there is no god, when he is not struck right there and then by a fulminating bolt of lighting. The fucking nerve.)

“You have asked the FBI not to investigate,” continues Marjorie.

“Indeed. Those who sought to ruin me with this will meet a higher form of justice in time. Also, I don’t wish to give them any publicity.”

(A higher form of justice. Duly noted.)

Marjorie is by now drowning in Thor’s seemingly bottomless outpour of bullshit, breathing it in deeply, so caught in his impossibly blue eyes, the white rascal smile, the bulk of his muscles straining his fancy suit, and most likely intoxicated by the whiff of his powerful pheromones.

“No idea who could have done this?” she asks. “The person who took the images, perhaps, your… companion in the video?”

Oh, there it is, the cold hard metal under Thor’s striking blue eyes, a flash of the beast crouching there, under the pale suit and the pastel tones. The contrite demeanor is gone.

“Perhaps. I don’t know.”

They’re getting to the real crux of the matter. Thor has straightened up in his chair, his powerful build overwhelming the screen. Marjorie, who had been leaning towards him like a sunflower seeking the sun, sits back now. Thor’s discomfort is not for show. Danger.

“You have declared you do not know his identity.” (Oh, impressive, Marjorie. You have more guts than anyone gave you credit for.) The questions have of course been agreed beforehand. Thor shouldn’t be feeling cornered. But the murderous edge is there.

“I do not remember, no,” he declares. “Like I’ve said many times before, I remember nothing about that night. One could say I didn’t even know about it until those images came out.”

This is indeed the version he’s stuck to from the very beginning.

“There are some… appalling rumors about the identity of your, uh, partner,” says Marjorie. For the first time she looks at the cards in her hands. She’s being delicate. “…Do you know what I am referring to?”

Thor visibly swells with indignation. It’s hard to tell how much of it he’s faking and how much of it he cannot fucking contain. He’ll go for the indignation of the wronged man, of course he will. (He has no fucking shame.)

“I think so, Margaret. And I have no idea where they could have come from. I am horrified. The very idea that somebody would say such a thing just to hurt me is-is repulsive, beyond my understanding.” Notice his knuckles have blanched. That’s not for show.

“And mine, Thor,” she says, with palpable relief. “And mine. Whoever started the rumor must have had very, very mean intent at heart. Maybe it was the same person who leaked those images? Who could bear you such ill will? Do you really not want to find that out?”

There is another flash of metal in Thor’s eyes. It’s beautiful, but you have to have a taste for this kind of thing.

“They’ll meet their comeuppance sooner or later. There is no need to spend the tax-payers’ hard-earned money on the subject. Whoever it is, they do not deserve it.”

Loki smirks. 

“Maybe you could enlist your brother’s skills with the internet to track the wrong-doers?” suggests Marjorie, her wording awkward. Thor’s strong denial has invigorated her sense of injustice.

“I do not speak with my brother,” answers Thor, his eyes low, his tone soft, deceitfully so. It must cost him some serious amount of self-control. “We parted ways a long time ago. No, I won’t be asking him for help. I do not think he’d agree to it.”

“I understand the family disowned him when he was taken to jail for his criminal hacking activities,” contributes Miss Kellerman, oh so helpfully.

“That is not true,” protests Thor. “We offered our support at the time, and we celebrated when my brother made a deal to work for the FBI that shortened his sentence. And I wish him the best for the future. But it was clear the last time we spoke that neither he nor I wished any further contact with each other. It’s sad, but that’s the way it goes sometimes.”

Sad, he says. Hah.

“You’ve shown great courage and grace in the face of adversity,” praises Marjorie. She’s ready to hand him her entire soul, and everything else, if only he would have it. (Should have pressured him a bit harder, Marj, twist his screws a bit tighter. Thor would totally have fucked you to sweeten you up for the interview. The man is a whore. —And soft you would have been by now, though not sitting comfortably. Missed opportunity there, for shame.) “There are many who have turned against you.”

“Many, not all. The team has stood beside me.” (They certainly have, haven’t they. You’re welcome, by the way.)

“Well, your cancellation contract would have pretty much bankrupted them…” Oh, wily old hag. That was a low blow.

Thor stares right into her eye, but she sustains it. She affects a meek, naive attitude, but here’s a woman who’s earned and held on to this post for the last, what, twenty years or so? There is a ruthless core of steel there, Mr. Odinson. You’ve just hit it.

“Still,” he says, grinning tightly, showing teeth.

“This terrible scandal has cost you several publicity contracts on morality clauses.”

“I understand it completely. I signed up to represent them with my image, and my image has been affected by all this.” He’s changed tactics. Clever boy. Always hits the ground running.

“It’s not all bad news, however. You have also received a number of offers? You’ve got several underwear, perfume, and fashion brands suddenly very excited about you.”

“They say that when God closes a door, He opens a window,” smirks Thor. (And still he’s not been smitten by lightning. There clearly is no God, or They’ve got Their Divine Nose up your ass as well. Wouldn’t be a surprise.)

“I suppose those brands desire to capitalize on your new bad boy image. Will you be cultivating it from now on?”

“Only in the photoshoots, Marjorie, only in the photoshoots. I have learned my lesson.” (That smirk says otherwise. Brrrr, feel the shivers in the audience.)

“We have heard unfortunate news concerning your private life too. Is it true that your engagement with celebrity hotelier chain heiress Amora Chant has finished?

“I’m afraid so,” says Thor, with a heartfelt frown. “I bear her no ill will. This business put her under a kind of spotlight she never asked for. Our relationship was under a lot of strain, and we have mutually agreed to give each other some time.”

“You made such a gorgeous couple,” laments Marjorie. “Do you see any chance for reconciliation?”

“I have hope for the future. Our feelings remain unchanged. We shall have to wait and see.”

He didn’t bat a fucking eyelid either. This is not a professional at work, this is a fucking artist. Hats off to you, sir.

Marjorie returns to the niceties to finish the interview. Thor appears relaxed again, outrageously handsome as always, dwarfing her with his bulk. He meets the audience’s eyes and takes graciously their applause (humidity levels in that studio must have risen dramatically. And not from Thor’s crocodile tears.)

In his swanky loft, courtesy of the Government and the tax-paying citizens of this great country, Loki turns the obscenely huge TV off. He’s so so fucking horny. His brother at his very best is still the fucking best. After years of watching him waddle through the slime of his goody-two-shoes act, what a fucking relief to find out the man Loki knows better than anyone is still very much alive and kicking (emphasis on the kicking, soon enough.) He clenches around the vibrator bullet inside him. Hm… It’s a big one. It better be.

He’s fucking close. He could get there just sitting on it a bit longer, and thinking about Thor.

Delayed gratification, darling. Will power. Self-control. Wait.

He’s waited for fucking years. He can wait a bit longer. So he gets himself to the bathroom, extracts it carefully, and replaces it with a nice fat plug. He moans like the helpless little thing Thor makes him feel like when his ass closes around it. God, he’s so fucking horny.

In his mind, he follows Thor’s progress from the studio to the cab that’s going to drive him straight to this place. He relishes the shock of the studio minions when his dazzling charm turns into a killer stare for anyone who dares stand in his way. He sees him ripping the mike and shoving it into someone’s faceless face, striding purposefully down the crowded aisles without meeting anyone’s eye, ignoring any petition for a photo or an autograph before it can be put to him. He sees him bursting out the backstage doors, and an unflappable usher used to temperamental celebrities rushing to get him a cab. Perhaps Thor got a driver waiting already. This act today was nothing if not carefully planned. Must have planned this too. Thor, too, knows everything about delayed gratification.

He imagines Thor caught in traffic downtown. Impatient of course, but still as a lizard. Bouncing his leg or biting his nails is so below him. His face will be blank. If the driver should attempt conversation, Thor will cut that shit off immediately with one stare, burning with all the hatred and thirst for revenge he’s been nursing in his belly for months now, waiting for just this moment. His very last interview of this image-cleansing world tour (they wanted him in the UK and Australia too, even Japan, such wild ripples this tiny little video have caused.) He’ll drop the reformed, re-born angel of the heavens going through his own fucking stages of the cross, earning from TV set to radio set to TV set again the forgiveness of a number of shocked, horrified nations, including several who had never given a fuck about American hockey before, and come out clean and pure at the other side, with an even bigger career now.

That second act of the great masquerade starts tomorrow. Tonight, Thor drops the mask. There is no use for it with the one person in this world he has never been able to fool.

They haven’t spoken in a long, long time. Thor was oh so busy of course, what with training and playing, and then modeling and shooting ads in between hockey seasons, gracing massive billboards all over the country selling manly perfume, tight underwear, gold watches, aftershave, razors, goddamn fucking shoes. Whenever he had a break, he was painting the town red with his celebrity actress or model girlfriends, attending fashion and movie galas, the darling of every paparazzo in town. The rise and rise and rise of his star has happened in the eye of the press since the very early days, too damn gorgeous and juicy in every way not to draw the spotlight and hog it. The stages of his blossoming from young heartthrob to mature ladykiller can be easily dated through his frankly overwhelming presence in the graphic press for the last ten years.

Loki’s life hasn’t been quite so glamorous. He too wanted money fast, and his many talents recognized and praised. It’s unfortunate, really, that he never had that. Everything could have turned out so different for everyone.

Anyway. He was ripe for the taking when he fell in with dubious company, and between one thing and the other eventually he found himself at the door of a certain boss of the underworld who wanted to branch out into the murky uncharted waters of cybercrime. Loki made a frankly indecent amount of money and mischief for Thanos before some people in the organization made some unfortunate choices and fell in the claws of the ruthless American government. They were offered protection or life in jail. It was no choice really. No matter which they went for in the end, none of them lived to regret it.

As for Loki, he’s much too pretty to go to jail, but he’s far from stupid too. He knew exactly which names to name, and which absolutely not, nuh-huh, and never. It happened to be the one the government wanted most. It annoyed the honest portion of the agents involved no end, but satisfied the dark forces that lurk right behind and above them.

Loki had proven both his loyalty and his worth. He might still be of use to Thanos some day, so he lives for now. The government, too, can use him. So he got a deal. Not a bad one at all, by the way. Suspended sentence, collaboration, the occasional minor service for his dark overlords when it’s prudent to use him. He’s done well for himself. He’s relatively safe. Maybe that’s why he’s been getting so dangerously bored as of late.

Of course, a brother with a criminal conviction and such a colorful record was not something Thor or the family wanted associated with their name. Disowned, is how Marjorie put it. Cast out of the Garden, kicked out to the East of Eden, fucking denied and cut off, would be more like. Even if now Loki had become one of the most valuable assets of the cybercrime division of the FBI, and a number of other intelligence agencies all around the world, still they didn’t want Loki back.

Thor had certainly made it clear, through third channels, that Loki was to stay away.

They had been close, once. Too close, arguably. It was their dirty little secret, and that’s how they both liked it, dirty. Dirty, filthy, wild, and rough. They were both hooked on it, the danger, the outrageousness. _Brother_.

It was never even, though. There was never any semblance of balance. Thor held all the cards. He had Loki eating off the palm of his hand, just like everyone else. So Thor would expand horizons, fuck around, as was expected from such a hot piece of jock ass. Loki could like it or lump it. Lump it, Loki did. He was a drooling, pathetic slut for his brother. 

But he was not completely without power, that is the truth. There was a leash Loki too could yank. If he dared fuck around, for example. 

_You belong to me,_ he once roared at you, remember? And if it had been too long since his brother had last staked his claim, Loki knew just how to rattle his chains. And he did, oh, did he ever. Thor was never more brutal than those times. Or truer. For all his pretense of nonchalance, his brother cared. Oh, he _cared_. 

_You belong to me -_ he whispered in Loki’s ear, with Loki’s blood on his cock, tears streaking Loki’s face. _You’re mine._ And Loki has never felt happier, safer, more content. 

And, well, if Loki had any doubt that there was no other for him, a few years of debauchery and some unorthodox assignments for both Thanos and the forces of law and order had taught him the hard way it was Thor or no-one.

When Thor was leaving for college, Loki told him he had a parting gift for him. He bolted the door, set up the camera, put on the mask. A little souvenir for him to remember his kid brother by, keep him warm away from home.

It was certainly one of the best fucks of both their lives, a prolonged, steamy, vigorous performance of their Greatest Hits. Thor made him feel that afternoon like he was the only living soul in the world that mattered. Loki fed on the memory of that afternoon for years after the event.

Before he left for college, Thor made him destroy his copy, under threat of never laying one finger on Loki ever again if he refused. Being young and naive, Loki tripped all over himself to obey. His brother stood by with those cold steel eyes while Loki went through the process. There was a ritual burning of the original physical memory card. What Thor never told him, however, was that he had taken the last existing copy to college with him.

Loki agonized at home, withering away, starving. Thor visited from time to time, and fucked his brother with the rough, cruel passion of a hunger of months. It was amazing. He’d grab his hair and twist his neck and made him swear there would be no-one else. _I want you clean,_ he would say, but Loki knew better. He sometimes feared Thor would take a chunk off him with a bite and swallow it. The taste for pain Loki eventually acquired started then. Oh, to be held by the throat against a wall until he started to see sparks, while Thor stared at him like that, relishing the fucking power, before being shoved down kneeling and face-fucked almost till he passed out. To be told to sit down on his lap with their dog’s fucking leash around his neck and told to fuck himself on Thor’s cock until Thor was satisfied, sometimes while Thor held his wrists behind his back. Sometimes he’d leave Loki hanging, sitting between Loki’s legs and jerk off while he forbade Loki to touch himself. Sometimes he’d tell him to make himself come just rubbing on his fucking leg. Other times, very sparingly, he’d suck Loki, so painfully slow and too loose and for so long, and slap him across the face several times if he came before Thor told him so, and got especially rough on him in the way that pleased him that day.

And then he’d tenderly gather him in his arms and licked the bite marks like the gentle animal he could be when he’s sated and his claim is assured. _Look at you,_ he’d whisper, _look at you._ Loki would be writhing on the bed (or the floor, or wherever), absolutely high on being his brother’s toy, slave, puppet. Under their parents’ goddamn noses. Blasting metal music to cover Loki’s cries. One big hand on Loki’s mouth or several fingers inside when it was late at night and music wasn’t an option. Or a choke.

Did Thor ever do anyone like he did his brother? For a long time, Loki thinks, probably not, judging from the need he came home with.

But then, in time. In time.

Loki started feeling him slipping through his fingers. Thor was moving on with his life, moving up in the world, moving away from his brother. Eventually, Thor moved to Canada, and they stopped seeing each other for good. Thor never said that was it, so for years Loki waited and waited, living on vague promises and sinking in increments in despair every time they didn’t come true.

The following decade was confusing. Serving under Thanos involved a lot of drugs, another control mechanism he would use to bring his minions to heel. As if half in a dream, Loki got himself deeper and deeper in a world of shit, the light of day dimming and dimming as the exit gate closed behind him, and the mouth of the well sealed above him. Meanwhile, through the haze of fear, drugs, and sex, he witnessed from the shadows Thor’s Becoming, from unknown hockey player to America’s Sweetheart, culminating in his famously record contract to play for the New York Avengers.

Loki’s eventual arrest, trial, and conviction didn’t even make a dent, not a scratch. Thor was invincible.

And so we go into the next, oh, five years or so, with Loki serving his time behind a desk, with the government’s most advanced technology at his disposal, safe, his services used, but not really appreciated as they should, and bored as fuck.

Boredom is a dangerous thing with Loki. Everyone should know that by now. They ought to be more careful. Thor certainly forgot, and that was his worst mistake, and his ultimate downfall. _His_ fault.

It was a piece of cake to hack into each and every one of his brother’s electronic devices, from his phone to his fucking fridge. Like a devil over Thor’s shoulder, Loki read his chats with his mates, his girlfriends, his representative, his manager, his publicist, their parents. With a mixture of awe and fear, Loki witnessed Thor’s frankly alarming skill to show a different face and a different voice tailor-made for his every contact. The result? Everybody loves him. Everybody thinks he’s the shit.

The contents of Thor’s fridge don’t give Loki a lot in the form of entertainment, but Thor’s laptop is another whole beautiful, fascinating, and bottomless kettle of fish. Rummaging in it, Loki finds Thor has kept a penchant for taping his sexual shenanigans. All women these days, but the fucker is brazen, and one would have cause for argument to claim not all of them were aware of the taping or gave consent. The fucking sleaze. Loki considers for the first time that he has the tools to smother some mud over his brother’s shining image, if he feels like it. It’s not that he doesn’t feel like it, but something is holding him back. The last dregs of whatever self-preservation instincts he was born with, maybe.

It comes as a true surprise when in a folder of boring, scrupulously kept tax returns showing nothing of interest whatsoever, Loki finds an innocently named file with an extension that doesn’t belong there. It’s with a shiver that he opens it, and indeed there it is - good lord, _their_ tape, in all its shitty lit, grainy glory. Fifty-five epic minutes of total filth, in which a golden master of the universe fucks every whole of a young, dark-haired, pale, skinny twink with a lacy Venetian-style masque. The twink is devoted, his body and soul surrendered. The golden god is merciless, using him like a fucking blow-up doll. First he edges him cruelly, and then he ruthlessly fucks him beyond orgasm until the boy comes again, pleading. And then he fucks him some more, before he comes all over the boy’s face, jizz dripping from the black mask. There is a cut where they took a break, and then it starts again, featuring a lot of oral, the twink on his knees with his hair in a bunch in Thor’s fist, getting deep-throated rather brutally, and loving it, with the golden hunk’s other hand stroking his face with something that feels like sweet, tender love. Oh, to see it again, such a strange sensation. He remembered of course, but only in glimpses, and clearly out of order; many of his memories were just wrong. How funny. How magnificent.

Thor had kept it. The exhilaration of that fact alone put a kick in Loki’s step.

The camera was switched off before the twink, exhausted, fucked brainless, sore all over, took off his mask and crumbled boneless in the room where the festivities have been held. And so, the tape never caught Thor lying beside him and cuddling Loki close, kissing him deep and warm, his words soothing, rocking him while Loki sobbed quietly with his face buried in his brother’s broad chest, because he was leaving, and Loki’s stupid, pointless life was over. _(Shh shh, babyboy, it’s okay, it’s alright…)._ Shame, Loki thinks, he would have liked to see that part too right now.

For no reason whatsoever, out of simple habit probably, he checked the file’s history. And his eyes almost blew out of their orbits when he realized that his brother had opened the file quite a few times during the years, the last time as recently as a few months back. Breathless, his fucking world changed, life upended, he put his own invisible little flag on it, so he would know if Thor opened it again.

And guess what. It was only a few months before Thor hit on the file, once more.

_(Shh, shh, babyboy, it’s okay, it’s alright… I love you, baby boy. Don’t cry. It’s alright.)_

Loki knows gold when he finds it, so he sits on that particular, priceless treasure, and waits. He waits under Thor’s eyes staring invitingly from all those monstrous billboards, his wholesome, sunshiny, All-American smile at odds with that sinful body and that indecent bulge he’s only too proud to show off. The perfume commercials on TV at Christmas time are the fucking worst, the camera feasting in black and white and every shade of silver on the frankly outrageous muscles of that divine body, delaying on his sultry gaze. There are more campaigns, there are pieces for Men’s Health and GQ and the entire fucking kiosk worth of magazines. It seems as if Thor is fucking everywhere, gazing intensely at him, gloriously suited or half-naked, there’s no in-between. If it was getting harder and harder for Loki to get on with his life, it was impossible now, after his fall from grace and into the mind-numbing claws of the government.

And then the day came when Thor’s press agent announced his client’s engagement to be lavishly married to the heiress of a famous five-star hotel chain, a celebrity herself, fashionista, influencer, tits and face and ass done, self-appointed lifestyle guru (to the certain damage of her many followers); the kind of person who flaunts her gold filled toilet seat. Basically Thor was going to marry the cheapest, tackiest, most despicable creature he could possibly have managed to find.

Over Loki’s dead fucking body.

Precisely seven days after the announcement, the now infamous sex tape broke out. It spread quicker than brushfire. The photography is static, and the light is not great, but there can be no doubt who is the star of the show. And it’s sensational. Loki never tires of watching it himself. Neither do the millions of hits on the multiple online platforms it has taken over.

Sure enough, all hell breaks loose, and in under a month it has managed to turn the golden sports god’s entire life upside down.

From his upscale apartment in downtown Manhattan, and all the high-tech, luxury trinkets paid for with ill-gotten gains from his previous life which the government grudgingly had to let him keep, Loki watches his brother’s world burn, with a manic villainous cackle.

With his easy backdoor access to the electronic life of pretty much everyone in Thor’s life, he follows with only half an interest the panicked flailing of Thor’s team, trying to find ways to do some damage control. Hysterical.

There are also some chats among Thor’s team mates, held behind his back, that catch Loki’s eye a lot more. Homophobic slurs, agreeing to shut him out, conspiring to force him to leave the team. He also reads the talk between the team’s coach and the big bosses. They are looking for legal ways to get rid of him. There aren’t any that won’t cost them a fortune. And so they decide Thor is going to spend the rest of the season confined to the bench, and hope he will walk himself. They intend to make his life impossible.

Nobody except Loki gets to fuck with his brother’s life. No-one.

Drastic measures must be taken. Loki does what he does best: stir the shit, brew up a storm. Everybody has things to hide, so he digs them up. If they’re not ugly enough, he knows how to make them look worse. They come out to the light. Even those who have managed to stick to the straight and narrow have badmouthed someone at some point. Loki rakes up the dirt and throws it at the fan.

The press has a field day with it, and the locker room falls into chaos. Messages stray and end up in the wrong inbox. He contributes some himself. The atmosphere between the team mates turns to poison. Physical conflicts break out. Now they all fucking hate each other, nobody trusts anyone. As a result, the focus moves away from Thor.

The coach, for his part, is anonymously pressured with some (rather innocent, really) activities behind his loving wife’s back into putting Thor on the playing field again. The bosses need only the slightest prodding with the plentiful, varied wrong-doings that practically fall into Loki’s hands, and they have to swallow down and keep Thor. His contract will run its full course, and nobody will even bat a suggestive eyelid in Mr. Odinson’s direction in regards to an abrupt finalization before its time.

Thor must surely start to feel the guardian angel now hovering over his shoulder, cleaning up along his way. And Thor can be spiteful, vengeful, and downright mean, but he’s not stupid. He’ll take what is being handed to him from the suspicious heavens and run with it.

He takes to the ice in a blaze of anger and fury. Behind him, a group of mad bastards who hate each other and their lives right now. There is nothing Loki can do to silence the taunting and the slurs Thor has to hear when he’s playing, from the supporters and from the other teams, but Thor can. He channels the humiliation into glorious force and brutality, and shows the world the cutting, brutal steel he’s made of. His teammates forget all about the fucking tape, and follow him up the charts all the way into the playoffs.

The New York Avengers win the cup that year, and nobody can argue that it was Thor Odinson who made that happen. 

The public, however, are still baying for blood. That tape is just too juicy. Damage control must follow, to court the goodwill of the family audience back. This interview today was the last in a months-long operation of image detox, involving an exhausting tour of press engagements requiring Thor to confess and make penance and beg forgiveness again, and again, and again. Loki watches each and every one of them, smiling.

He knew that Thor would stay as far away as possible from his criminal little brother while the eye of the storm was upon him. There are those rumors. Now the tour is done, and Loki is expecting a house call.

While he waits for his brother, he has a shower, puts on a fresh suit, all with the plug still inside. He checks his face in the mirror. He, too, has blossomed into his own fully grown self; his traits have sharpened, but his eyes are just as hungry. There is a difference. This time, the cards are in Loki’s hand.

He’s panting.

Any moment now.

***

“It’s open.”

Loki leans on the bar of his swanky kitchen. Has a drink by his side. It’s a prop. He glares with that green, reptilian stillness. Thor walks in slowly and bolts the door. Loki smirks.

“So nice of you to drop by,” he says. “It’s been too long, don’t you think? How have you been?”

Thor is still and quiet, with murder in his eyes. He saunters one step closer and the knuckles of Loki’s hands holding the bar turn white. He certainly has a wealth of flaws, but stupidity is not one of them, so he _is_ scared. But he's not about to show it. 

“Like the place? I’m an upstanding member of society now. Bit more modest than the Disneyworld-sized McMansion you were going to buy with your darling fiancée, but you can’t beat the location.”

Thor prowls closer. Loki’s gaze drops to his fists, clenched tight by his brother’s sides. He’s started to shake.

“Why did you do it,” says Thor, a coarse whisper. If he plays dumb, Thor will sink his fucking nose into his face. “Why now.”

“It was high fucking time. I’ve let you get away with it far too long.”

“With what.”

Loki’s smirk turns nasty.

“The perfect All American boy, golden and wholesome. You thought you could have it all. Fool them all. Sorry, brother dear, not in my fucking lifetime.”

“You’re still the same pathetic little shit,” says Thor, almost fondly. “To think I’d almost come to respect you. ‘Well, what do you know, he hasn’t come back crawling yet!’ You never fail to disappoint me, do you.”

Loki’s jaw clenches, his paleness now stark. Thor takes yet one more step. He can see Loki’s chest rising and sinking with his breathing, more furious than frightened now.

“I’ve seen you lick every ass in middle America for three months. If we’re talking about pathetic, well, people in glass houses and all.”

Thor’s turn to glare.

“You should thank me, really.” Loki grins. “I could have uploaded the tape straight from your computer. With its very colorful history attached. The whole world would know you kept it all these years. That you watched it dozens of times. I could have left the fucking audio on, so they don’t miss my name once, and they fucking heard it crystal clear, every ‘brother.’ Unblur your mouth so your lips can be read. I showed you more mercy than you deserve. But I could still change my mind.”

Thor lunges. Loki’s neck so slight. A single hand is all Thor needs. He grabs him and sends him flying. Stops his fall by the scruff of the neck, throws him against the wall. Slaps him hard, Loki’s nose bleeding. Thor pins him there, hand on his throat, fist high up, ready to fall. Loki on his tip-toes trying to hold himself up, staring at it with wide eyes fixed with fear. If Thor hits him with that, he’s gone.

“How many times have you watched it?” whispers Thor. “Happy memories, baby? When I could still be bothered with you, when you were my bitch? When you took everything I gave you and came back begging for more?”

Loki grabs at his face with sharp claws, writhes, beautiful with pure hatred. Thor grabs both his wrists in one hand and that’s the end of that.

“Did you fantasize me walking into your bedroom after a party, like when we were kids, and fuck you with those jealous tears still wet on your face? Oh, I remember when you screamed at me that we were done, that you’d had enough, that you wanted me gone, and all I had to do was whisper ‘I love you’, to have you again on your knees. Surely you haven't forgotten about that, brother?” 

Loki struggles, tries to throw kicks. Thor squeezes his throat tighter.

It’s the helpless, desperate little whimper that does it. It explodes in Thor’s brain. He sees white.

He throws Loki away like a rag doll. He stumbles and falls on his hands and knees and it’s beautiful. He doesn’t have time to get up before Thor is already on him. Grabs him by the hair and drags him, with Loki trying to put his feet down all the way to the couch. Still by a handful of hair, he pulls him up on his feet. Punches his gut once just because. He bends him over the back of the couch, holds him down, hand still in Loki’s hair. He’s pretty sure Loki can’t move right now, but it’s the principle that counts, and Thor’s well practiced at undoing his own pants single-handed. Loki’s suit pants don’t put up much of a fight. His ass is as tight and pale and lovely as fucking Snowhite’s. He smacks him hard several times. He fucks in brutally.

And finds him wet and loose. The son of a bitch. He was ready.

Ah, fucking idiot. Of course Loki was fucking ready. Played Thor again, from start to finish. Clever boy. 

Thor grabs his hair, forces his neck to twist. Blood in Loki’s nose and mouth, tears down his face. He grins savagely - blood on his teeth.

Thor grins too. _Missed you too, baby._

And gets on with it, hard enough that Loki will be crying and begging him to have some mercy very soon, and mean it.

Loki’s hands shaking and useless as he tries to get dressed, come mixed with his own blood dripping out of him. Knees hardly hold him. He has to set himself very delicately when he sits down beside him, and doesn’t even try to hide the pained grimaces. 

Thor’s still panting. “You could have just called."

Loki chuckles dryly. 

“This is more fun,” he says. Broken voice, hoarse. Thor could get him a drink, but he fucking won’t. His face is a bloody, swollen mess. The marks of Thor’s fingers around his neck.

“The mess in the changing rooms. Coach’s change of heart about me. The scandal-panic among the bosses. It was you, it was all you from beginning to end.”

Loki grins. “You’re welcome.”

“How can I ever repay you,” snarks Thor.

Loki keeps grinning.

“I can think of a few ways.”

Thor snorts.

“Keep dreaming.”

Loki starts to chuckle, then coughs and spits. His face is peaceful when he manages to stop, leans his head back.

“You’ll be making a lot more time for me now,” he whispers. “Unless you want to lose the rest of your publicity contracts, and possibly your day job too, this time for good.”

“What are you talking about.”

Loki has a remote in his hand. He pushes a button and his huge TV turns on.

“Wave,” he says.

The screen is divided in six, showing the house. And them.

“Wait till you see this,” he says, before Thor has fully grasped the danger. He rewinds, and there they are again, from three different angles, faces clearly visible and identifiable, Thor fucking his brother like an animal, today’s date on the lower right corner.

“Do you think they’ll still want you to sell their watches and perfume when this hits the world wide web?”

“I’m going to fucking kill you.” And he’s on top of him, hands around his throat again, both this time. “Destroy it! Destroy it or I’ll kill you! I fucking swear I will!”

Loki’s mouthing something and some instinct makes Thor loosen his grip.

“Security,” whispers Loki, hoarser still. “It’s all in the cloud already. Not even I know the codes I have to introduce every single fucking day to prevent the failsafe from releasing them, because they change every day.

Trapped. Played. Had. Thor squeezes harder, until Loki’s eyes are bulging and his hands around his wrists are starting to lose their grip.

And Thor lets go.

“God damn you,” he whispers right in Loki’s face, and he spits.

Thor is not dumb. He never was. Stubborn he may be, but the years have managed to teach him something - know when you're beaten. He sits down, he sighs, he contemplates the future. He allows a moment for regret.

He'll never concede, and Loki should know that. But for now...

“I didn’t know you hated me so much.”

Loki coughs and splutters and chuckles. “Yes, you did,” he says.

Thor turns to him.

“I didn’t know you missed me so much.”

Loki stares right at him in challenge.

“Yes, you did.” Thor can’t make a reply and it’s only fair. “But now I own you.”

Thor stares right back, but not in challenge.

“You’re sick,” he says, almost tenderly.

“And you’re mine.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Be a darlingses and tell me if there are typos and such.


End file.
